


One Monstrous Miracle

by SeverusMinerva



Series: God Does Not Play Dice With The Universe [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Budding Love, Excessive Use of Aziraphale's Shop as a Location, F/M, Female Reader, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Violence, Kidnapping, Non-Graphic Violence, Possible smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-02-01 02:22:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21333715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeverusMinerva/pseuds/SeverusMinerva
Summary: Through miraculous events of unknown origin, the Reader stumbles upon a certain antique bookshop one afternoon, and from then on, the universe is never the same.I suck at summaries, please read my story.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale (Good Omens)/Reader, Crowley (Good Omens) & Reader
Series: God Does Not Play Dice With The Universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1537885
Comments: 22
Kudos: 125





	1. Part One

Today had been rather a long day for you, something that was quickly becoming the norm. Work was difficult, as it always had been, but everything just seemed to be getting more…tense all of a sudden. The news got bleaker, people got meaner, and your days got longer and more exhausting. Currently, you were walking home from said work, inwardly cursing yourself for forgetting your umbrella. “_You live in bloody London, for Christ’s sake!” _You thought to yourself savagely, clutching your purse tightly to your body and power walking through the downpour that had started the instant you had stepped outside.

You reluctantly came to the decision that walking the rest of the way home in such a storm would probably make you ill, and you didn’t think that Kathy, your boss, would be too forgiving if you had to take another sick day. Unbeknownst to you, the moment this thought popped into your head, and before your mind had even moved on to thinking of alternative ways to get home, every car on the street vanished into thin air, as if by magic. You, a simple mortal, would never have noticed it happening, and if you had, you would have forgotten it almost as quickly as it had happened. As it was, you looked around and realized that there would be no taxi to drive you home. You did some more inward cursing.

Now, it is important to note that when miracles are performed, it is not without great disturbance to the world around them. Someone who is well-acquainted with the practice will tell you that the air crackles with what most people will call “static electricity”, and those same people will then make a prediction about the weather—those people are almost always human. The experts—who are very rarely human, or even mortal at all—will also tell you that miracles make the most peculiar sound, like a high-pitched ringing in your ear. They will also tell you that miracles smell and taste faintly of vanilla.

It was at this moment in time that you, completely obliviously, were being subjected to one of the larger miracles that have been performed, one that stretched across time and space. It was this enormous miracle that caused you to look up at the sign for a little shop on the street corner, and read its name for the first time:

_“A.Z. FELL AND Co. ANTIQUARIAN AND UNUSUAL BOOKS”_

It was such a strange place, because although it seemed old and worn, and the very name of the shop seemed to come straight out of the 18th century, you didn’t recall ever having seen it before in all your years living in Soho. At once, your interest was piqued, and you forgot all about the rain in favor of this bookshop. As you opened the door, met with the twinkling of tiny bells, someone somewhere heaved a great sigh of relief: _It had begun._

You, in the meantime, were in your new-found happy place, surrounded by every old book one could ever want. You had been completely wrong about it being small, it seemed to be so much bigger on the inside. Reverently, your fingers brushed against the spines of books that were old enough to be your grandfather, if books could be grandfathers. Your hand stopped on beautifully ornate golden letters, embossed on a red leather cover that begged to be pulled off of the shelf and read. You were about to do just that when a voice startled you out of your almost trance.

You jumped in alarm, snatching your hand away as though the book had burned you, and stumbled back into a warm body, whose hands instinctively caught your arms so that you wouldn’t fall over completely. Your whole body tensed, and you shut your eyes tightly, hoping that you could wish the whole incident away. After a few seconds of silence, you had to admit defeat. The body behind you lowered their hands and stepped away, clearing their throat awkwardly.

“I am very sorry that I frightened you, my dear, Crowley does tell me that I tend to sneak up on people, but you seemed so focused and I didn’t want to interrupt your train of thought, Go—I know that happens to me too often and I—” The man—you’d determined from his voice—stopped himself. In the pause that followed, you slowly turned around to face him. Your breath hitched.

The man—you’d now confirmed—seemed to fit right in with the rest of the shop. His clothes had a very vintage feel to them, and although it was highly unlikely, something in you told you that they were all original. He was not terribly tall, but he wasn’t short, either. He had such a kind face, that was currently frowning in embarrassment. All of this was topped off by some extremely blond curls—so blond in fact that they may as well have been white. Although he would not be considered particularly handsome by most estimates, something about him was drawing you to him like bread to butter.

The pair of you had been standing there for what felt like hours, inspecting each other. It was very odd, and you were very glad that there were no other customers around to see you act so bizarrely. Just when you thought that the silence had passed the point of no return, the man burst out into a dazzling grin and put his hand out between you.

“I’m sorry, miss, where _are_ my manners? I am Aziraphale. What is your name?” You looked down at his hand for a second before grasping it with your own.

“Hullo, Aziraphale, I’m Y/N. It’s your name on the sign, then?” You asked, shaking his hand and then gesturing to the windows. Aziraphale chuckled.

“Oh, dear me, no! No, that is my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather’s name, I only inherited it. This shop has been around much longer, than I have, I’m afraid. Much, much longer.” He smiled his smile at you, but you frowned back at him.

“But I don’t remember this shop being here before, and I’ve lived here all my life!” You protested. At this, Aziraphale looked a bit sheepish, and started to fidget with the chain of his pocket watch.

“I have had to close it down quite a few times in recent years, family issues and all that—”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that—”

“No! I mean, no nothing bad.” Aziraphale’s look turned to something soft and proud. “I’ve recently acquired a Godson, and I’ve been helping to raise him up.” Your heart warmed at how much love you could hear in the man’s voice.

“Congratulations! That must be exciting,” You said, his infectious smile bringing out your own.

“Oh it is! He’s such a lovely boy, very kind and not at all like—” Again, Aziraphale stopped himself. He peered down at you, a strange, unreadable expression on his face. “I mustn’t bore you! I’ve been rambling this whole time, haven’t I? Such terrible manners—”

“I don’t mind,” You interrupted. Shocked, Aziraphale stared at you, seemingly unable to believe what you had said. You grinned at him, placing a hand on his arm. He broke his gaze and looked down at your hand, and then back up at you. “Ramble all you like,”


	2. Part Two

It had been a few months since that first meeting, and it had become second nature for you to stop by his bookshop on the way home from work. You were grateful that Aziraphale didn’t actually want to part with any of his precious volumes, or else your poor bank account would definitely suffer. Because the shop was essentially the best sort of library you could imagine, it was incredibly easy to find a book to read. And because Aziraphale was the nicest man you had ever met, he was more than happy to let you find a comfy old chair to park yourself in whilst you read said book. This was how most of your days went recently, and it was, in fact, how this particular day had begun.

The door clicked shut behind you with the pleasant sound of bells that you had grown so fond of. You were in a good mood—you’d gotten a major promotion at work, which meant that although you’d have to work a few more hours, you’d be doing things that you enjoyed and getting paid more for them. Aziraphale had, for some reason unbeknownst to you, planned to cook dinner for the both of you today. You’d objected, not wanting him to go through all of the trouble of having to close his shop early to get dinner ready by the time you got out of work, but he’d persisted.

_“It’s a special occasion, Y/N!”_

_ “What is?”_

_ “Being alive, of course!”_

You’d known that there was something more, but you ignored it in favor of relishing in the cozy affection that washed over you at how adorable this man could be. He could find wonder in the most trivial thing, which never failed to put a smile on your face. Even recalling moments like that, as you were doing now, could lift your spirits.

You wandered around the shop, browsing the shelves for any new additions. Aziraphale’s shop had quickly become your safe haven—a place that you could go and just relax with a good book and not have to worry about anything else. Soon, you had come to associate that feeling with the man himself. You hadn’t felt this way about anyone in a very long time, and it was refreshing, in an odd way, to feel like a teenager again. This was something new and unexpected, and perhaps it was just what you needed. Your inner monologue was cut off by Aziraphale calling your name from across the room.

“Y/N! You’re here! Just in time, everything is ready.” You turn and smile at him but frowned when you caught sight of the old grandfather clock standing by the sales counter.

“Already? I only got here a few minutes ago,”

“Oh, I wanted it to be ready for when you got here, so I started early—”

“But I got here almost an hour before I normally do! How are you finished already?” A flash of something unidentifiable crossed over his face, but it was quickly replaced with a charming smile.

“I must’ve forgotten to set the clock upstairs and started earlier than I had thought. A happy accident, no?” Again, the doubts in your mind vanished, and you found yourself grinning back at him. Ever the gentleman, he gestured for you to walk up the stairs in front of him. The smells coming from the second floor had drifted down slowly and were weaving themselves around you, making your mouth water in anticipation. When you got to the top of the staircase, Aziraphale darted around you to open the door to his flat.

Despite all the time that you had spent in his building over the past couple of months, you had never ventured up here. You doubted that you would even notice if you had—the flat had the same eccentric-yet-cozy feel to it that the bookshop did, except in the place of books there were hundreds of different knick-knacks. Some looked rather new, and others looked as though they had jumped straight out of a history book.

“This is where I live. Pardon the mess, I haven’t been able to find a good system of storing yet.” He started fiddling with a set of Russian dolls that were sitting on a side table but gave up as quickly as he started and turned back to you. You realized that he was waiting for you to say something.

“I love it. It’s…homey.” You smiled genuinely at him. In some ways, it felt more like home to you than anywhere else, but that was a revelation for another day. After a few seconds of slightly awkward standing, your stomach chose that exact moment to growl. Loudly.

“Where _are_ my manners? You must be starving! Here, let’s get some food in you, alright?” He led you to his dining room, where you were immediately greeted with the most delicious-looking meal of your life.

“You made all of this for _me_?” You asked incredulously, not believing your eyes. The table in the center of the room was positively groaning under the weight of all the food Aziraphale had cooked. Somehow, every single one of your favorites had made it onto tonight’s menu, making your heart grow warm with the knowledge that Aziraphale listened to and remembered the things you told him. You looked up at his expectant face, feeling silly for getting so emotional over dinner.

“It’s wonderful, Aziraphale. Thank you.”

“Of course, my dear. Anything for you.” He moved to pull out the chair closest to you, indicating that you should sit down. “Shall we?”

Dinner was _divine_. The food you ate on that day was the best food you had ever, or would ever, eat, period. You insisted that Aziraphale was secretly a world-famous chef, an idea that he quickly shot down— “_How on Earth could I be a world-famous chef in secret? Wouldn’t everyone know? It wouldn’t be much of a secret, Y/N.”—_but you weren’t too sure. You ate more than your fill, but when Aziraphale suggested that the two of you end the night with a cup of cocoa by the fireplace, you couldn’t refuse.

And so, you found yourself sitting on Aziraphale’s worn tartan sofa, sipping the rich chocolate and staring into the flames. Aziraphale sat beside you, his cup resting nicely on his knee. Together you sat in comfortable silence for quite a while, giving you time to reminisce over the evening and, more importantly, your thoughts about the man who had orchestrated the whole thing.

You knew that you had developed a sort of crush on him, and it had become increasingly apparent in recent weeks. Your heart would pound harder the closer you got to his shop, and the second he would look up from his work and focus his attention on you, you could feel your cheeks start to burn. It was highly unlikely that he hadn’t noticed anything different about the way you acted around him, but you knew he was too kind to say something about it. The trouble was that the friendship you had built with him, the easy companionship that you found in each other, was too precious for you to risk losing it by telling him what you truly felt. What if he didn’t feel the same way? What if he only wanted you to be his friend, nothing more? Oh God, what if he was _gay_? You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, but quickly looked away. Your anxiety was spiking, and you had to do something about it before—

“AZIRAPHALE!!” Both of you jumped, but thankfully most of your cocoa was gone so none of it spilled. Aziraphale was not so lucky, and he cursed as he looked down at his chocolate-covered lap.

“Damn!” You looked around for something to wipe it off with, but you couldn’t find anything. When you refocused on him, your brain short-circuited for a second. Aziraphale’s pants were now completely dry, with no chocolate on them whatsoever. He seemed to have gotten some on his hand though, because he had part of his pointer finger in his mouth, trying to suck the pain away. Loud footsteps were coming from the stairway outside the door of the flat, and you stared at each other in confusion.

The door was kicked off its hinges in the singular most dramatic entrance you could imagine. The strange man at the door seemed to be other worldly, like his very presence upended the balance of the Universe. Space rippled around him, giving one the impression that he was swaying back and forth, almost snakelike. He had the air of someone who was much _much_ older than they appeared, which clashed atrociously with his spiked, modern haircut and his skintight jeans. It hurt your eyes just to look at him, but, like a car wreck on the M-25, you couldn’t look away. Somehow, even though he was wearing glasses the color of a black hole, you could tell that he was ignoring you entirely. You watched as he made his way to stand angrily in front of your friend. Aziraphale opened his mouth, but he was cut off.

“I’ve been calling you for _day, _you useless blob! I thought something had happened to you, Aziraphale! In case you’ve forgotten, we are in this together. If we fuck up, it will be the actual _end of the world._ I—who the Heaven is this?” The man turned to peer at you through his sunglasses, frowning as if you were a spot on the sofa, and not a living, breathing person sitting there instead. Suddenly he turned back to Aziraphale, so you could no longer see his face, but his body language changed drastically—he looked dangerous, like an animal ready to pounce. When he spoke his voice was mocking, dripping with derision.

“Really? You mean to tell me that this pathetic waste of space is what has you tied up? Didn’t you learn anything from the last time you tried it on with a _mortal_? I knew you were dense, Angel, but not stupid—” Aziraphale was up before your brain could process that he had moved at all. He was now standing toe-to-toe with the stranger, which would have looked unimpressive if Aziraphale had not been so obviously full of rage that it practically radiated off of him. The taller man looked down his nose at Aziraphale but said nothing.

“Don’t you _ever_ speak about her in that filthy way again.” Where the tall man’s voice had been unsettling, Aziraphale’s was downright terrifying. You had never heard him sound so threatening, and you’d seen someone try to buy his first edition of Gutenburg’s Bible. It sent shivers down your spine, and your instincts kicked in. You rose from your seat, backing away from the escalating argument in front of you. The two men fought back and forth, and your heart sank further and further into the pit of your stomach. The night had started out so well, you had no idea when things had gone so wrong. You located your purse on the coffee table and picked it up, clutching it to your body.

“I’m going to leave now,” you tried, but to no avail. You cleared your throat, feeling like you were on the brink of tears. “I said, I’m going to leave now!”

That got their attention. Aziraphale’s eyes went wide when he saw you holding your purse, not to mention the way you seemed to be unconsciously cowering away from them. He reached out to you but you stepped back, shaking your head.

“Th-thanks for dinner. I have an early day tomorrow and I should really head home.” You turned to leave. Your hand was on the doorknob when you heard Aziraphale’s voice from behind you.

“Will I see you tomorrow, then?” Your shoulders tensed, and you had to bite your lip against the—completely ridiculous—tears that spring up at the careful hope you could hear. You took a deep breath, and without answering, opened the door and left the little shop.

From the street, you could hear a tremendous noise coming from the second story window, like something quite large and heavy being thrown against the ground. You shuddered because deep down, you didn’t know if the stranger had done it, or if Aziraphale, sweet, loving Aziraphale had. You walked faster.


	3. Part Three

Men are stupid. It is a lesson that every person that considered themselves attracted to men learns at some point in their life, and it was a lesson that you had apparently forgotten. You had let yourself get pulled in by the promise of exquisite, centuries-old books and now you were paying for it.

You had assumed post-breakup position: laying across your sofa in your old, but still very fluffy pyjamas, a carton of ice cream on your lap with the sound of crap telly playing in the background. You weren’t even paying attention to what was happening on screen, but you knew that the alternative was to sit in silence until it was time for work, and you didn’t know how much of that you could take.

You couldn’t understand what exactly your problem was. Aziraphale hadn’t _really _done anything wrong, had he? He had been the perfect gentleman from the moment you had met him and yet something in you felt…betrayed. The thought of how angry Aziraphale had gotten, the crashing sound that had come from his sitting room window, the memory of the rage in his eyes frightened you. This man who had lovingly repaired priceless works of literature, who had patiently sat and _enthusiastically_ listened to you rant about all the things that had happened to you over the course of the day, who had somehow remembered every single one of your favourite dishes and had cooked them all himself just because he had wanted to had transformed in front of your eyes. He’d become something terrible and dangerous, and _that _was your problem. The switch had been too much for you, and your fear had turned into hurt.

It was ridiculous, really. You knew that it was, but that didn’t stop you from avoiding the familiar little bookshop from then on. Partly out of residual confusion and dismay at what had happened, but mostly out of an overwhelming sense shame at how poorly you had dealt with the situation. You’d run away sobbing as though Aziraphale had hit you, when all he had done was defend you fiercely to someone who seemed to be an important figure in his life. No, you wouldn’t be stepping foot near the shop anytime soon if you had anything to do about it.

Unfortunately for you, you had a great less “anything” to do with it than you thought you had.

It had been another long day. You enjoyed your new promotion and you were eternally grateful that you had gotten it in the first place, but it came with a truckload of new responsibilities that left you singularly exhausted on the bus ride home that evening. In your efforts to avoid Aziraphale at all costs, you had recently taken to riding the bus again, much to your wallet’s chagrin. Again, the foolishness of your actions was not lost on you, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to grow up.

The bus came to a stop and you followed the stream of tourists out onto the pavement. You felt almost like you were in a daze, mechanically turning and walking towards your apartment. Your eyes seemed to see through everything, out of focus and not really paying attention to what was going on around you. Distantly, you noticed that the air had begun to smell faintly of vanilla, like the nearby bakery was baking a wedding cake. In your tired state, you had forgotten that that particular bakery would have been closed long before you had even stepped foot on the bus earlier. Your neighbourhood was not a particularly dangerous one, but it was never smart for a young person to be out so close to dark without being at least somewhat aware of their surroundings. Though you couldn’t have known this, every potential mugger, or killer, or other type of criminal suddenly remembered something urgent that needed tending to on the other side of the city. Speeding motorists found their gas petals to be a tad bit wonky, keeping their vehicles moving along at well under the speed limits. Streetlamps that had long been neglected by the council clicked on, lighting your way home. Just for shits and giggles, for no reason at all (except for one very good reason that you were not at all privy to and were unlikely to be in your lifetime), you lifted your head and turned to look across the street.

Your heart skipped a beat. It was him! It had to be. He was standing in the middle of a group of people, none of them particularly interesting in anyway, so his shockingly white curls and light brown coat stood out like a sore thumb. Your heart beat wildly in your chest. It had been so long since you had seen the man, and the ache you felt as you tried to get a better view of him was almost too much to bear. Unbidden, your arm began to raise itself and his name flew to the tip of your tongue, but before you knew it, he was gone.

* * *

You thought about the incident all the way to your building and up the stairs to your flat. You had half a mind to call Aziraphale and demand to know why he was hanging about on Dean Street not ten minutes ago, and where the hell had he gone between the two seconds it had taken you to decide to call out to him and the moment you’d realised he was no longer there. You decided, thankfully, that you probably weren’t going to come at it from the right angle, especially not over the phone, and that you’d be better off continuing as you were. You put your keys and purse down and hung up your coat, thinking about dinner but unable to keep the memory of Aziraphale’s kind smile out of your mind.

You cooked yourself some pasta, not in the mood for a proper meal. You loved cooking, you really did, but it didn’t seem to have the same… ‘umph!’ to it that it had before this whole fiasco with Aziraphale. You had turned on the television so that you could have a bit of background noise while you worked and let yourself focus on the familiar rituals of boiling and straining and stirring. Before long, you had a plate of your favourite pasta along side a glass (a rather full one, mind you,) of your favourite wine. All was well.

Your serenity was interrupted by loud pounding at your door, as if someone were trying to knock the whole bloody thing down. You jumped, nearly spilling your wine all over your face, but you saved yourself at the last minute. Furiously (gingerly) putting the glass down on your kitchen table, you stood up from your chair, intending on giving whoever was on the other side of that door a piece of your mind. Apparently, you weren’t moving quite fast enough for them, because they knocked again, and you swore you could hear the hinges give a little and the force they were being put under. You stomped over to the door, unlocked it, wrenched it open to find—

“_What the fuck?_” It was Aziraphale’s angry friend. He stood right outside your door, smirking at you like the little shit he probably was. Your brain paused, hit rewind, and started again. You remembered the incident in Aziraphale’s living room and you tensed, preparing yourself for a deluge of indeterminate nonsense about you being mortal? And that somehow being a problem? He was just as unnerving as he had been when you had first seen him, still swaying, still upending the Universe. The real question of the hour was—

“How do you know where I live?!” You screeched, attempting to shut the door in his face, only to be met with his arm. He smirked and advanced on you, forcing you to walk backwards into your own flat. You looked around desperately and saw a hardcover textbook that you had been using to refresh some technique for work. You grabbed it and pointed it towards him, trying to look threatening. The man reached his hand out and you backed away.

“Don’t! Don’t come any closer!” Crowley stopped moving forward, but he didn’t look the least bothered by your performance. He chuckled, leaning against the doorframe.

“Well I was going to introduce myself, but it seems you remember me. Let’s put a name to the face, shall we? My name is Crowley and I understand that I may be…how do you say, fit a f? I am sorry, love but you aren’t quite my type.” He finished by making a show of looking you up and down, which only fuelled your annoyance.

“Answer my question! How do you know where I live? Why are you even here?!”

“I’m afraid that was two questions, which one—”

“ANSWER THE DAMN QUESTIONS!” You demanded. Crowley frowned behind his pitch-black sunglasses (which he wore inside, hours after the sun had set) and seemed to grow more serious.

“I—that’s not how I was supposed to start this. Force of habit, you know, it gets the best of us all.” You didn’t respond, waiting for this strange man who had barged into your life on two separate occasions and had brought you nothing but irritation to explain himself.

“See it’s…I…you are—” He stopped, annoyed with the difficulty he was having. You were annoyed that he was still in your flat. “Aziraphale isn’t well.”

Your heart stopped. What? How could that be? You had just seen him! What was wrong? Was he dying? What if—

“He misses you, love. He won’t admit it but he does. He feels awful about what happened and that you were scared or whatever and ran away and he’s been wanting to call you for weeks but he’s too scared to. He’s not himself, Y/N.” This was not what you were expecting to hear. Aziraphale missed you? He’d been thinking about you? You basked in this knowledge for a couple of seconds before your mind stuck on something.

“How do you know my name?” There hadn’t been time for introductions when he had interrupted you and Aziraphale, and you definitely hadn’t said it since he’d interrupted you now.

“Angel talks about you all the time. It’d be grand not to know your name but noooo. Everything is always “Y/N that” and “Y/N this”. “Isn’t Y/N perfect Crowley?”” He’d pitched his voice higher to indicate he was mocking Aziraphale, but you had barely noticed. This was getting to be a bit too much for you to handle. Did Aziraphale…could he actually…did he feel the same way about you that you did about him? Was it even possible? Crowley must’ve seen your confusion on you face because he softened a little.

“Look. Come back to the shop. At least just talk to him, tell him you’re not angry anymore. You’re not angry anymore, right?” He waited for you to respond. You realised that no, you weren’t angry. You missed him sorely, and if you could have him back in your life, even if everything that Crowley had told you was false, it would be more than enough to just be friends again. You shook your head. Crowley grinned at you.

“Brilliant. So, go to the shop, do whatever you two do, and I won’t have to hear about “lovely Y/N” anymore. It’s win-win-win for everyone.” He turned to leave but stopped, sighed heavily, and turned back around. “Uhm. While I’m here, uh. Aziraphale wanted me to…you know…” He cut himself off. He seemed to do that a lot for a man who had no qualms about breaking down doors and interrupting other people.

“You know how people say things that they don’t mean?” He asked, looking up at a water spot on your ceiling. You nodded. He looked down and nodded too, his lips twitching in a smile. “Good. See ya around, love!” And with that he left, the door closing behind him on his way out.

You stood and stared at the door for a good while before dropping the book on the ground and sitting heavily onto your sofa. There was so much to think about now, and your mind was absolutely buzzing. You decided that tonight was a very good night to finish off that brand-new bottle you had just bought yesterday.

* * *

Your palms were sweaty. Your knees were trembling slightly, but that wasn’t as bad as sweaty palms. He would feel your sweat and be disgusted and kick you out of his shop before any of your nasty oily sweat got on any of his precious books. Or, replied the competent part of your brain, you could wipe your hands on your jeans and open the damned door already. Your stomach twisted as you raised your hand and pushed on the handle and walked through the doorway.

You were greeted with the sweet sound of bells. The smell of old books and wax and something that Aziraphale carried around with him washed over you, relaxing your shoulders and planting a stupidly stupid smile on your face. You were totally in love with this man, but his bookshop came a close second. You wandered around at first, partly interested in the books and partly biding time until you had to deal with the Aziraphale in the room. It wasn’t difficult to lose yourself in all of the old volumes, and you were so particularly engrossed in one that you were completely oblivious to the man behind you on the stairs.

Aziraphale was beside himself. He had been up in his apartment brewing some tea when the sound of the front door drew him out to the shop. He’d come down the stairs, expecting to find some customer that he would have to fight tooth and nail to keep from buying one of his books but instead he’d found _you. _After the way you had left, in tears and clearly terrified, he had not dared to hope that he’d see you again. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He couldn’t help himself from watching over you as you walked home, performing the self-same miracle that had kept you safe last night (however, he was not responsible for you looking up at him, that was something else entirely and it had spooked him something fierce). That was all he had allowed himself to do, baring himself from calling you or visiting you, thinking that if you were so frightened of him, you would not appreciate him initiating contact before you were ready.

He ached for you. He thought of you every day; of your smile, your eyes, your intelligence, your passion for his books and your genuine desire to understand him. Over the time you were apart, he’d come to realise how much he cared for you and how much it hurt to not have you in his life. He watched, unwilling to break your concentration as you ran your fingers reverently along the books, mouthing their titles silently. You were beautiful, even with your hair in the messy bun you preferred on days you didn’t have to dress up for work, in ripped jeans and an old sweater. He couldn’t just stare at you all day, so he forced himself to break his trance and clear his throat.

Predictably, you jumped, hitting your hand on the thick wood of the bookcase. You cursed loudly, bringing your hurting hand to your chest. Panicked, Aziraphale rushed down the stairs and to your side, already reaching for your hand.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, my dear, please forgive me! I didn’t mean to startle you, I just…Oh I feel awful!” You let him take your hand in both of his, everything you had meant to say before stepping into the shop floating away as you watched Aziraphale fuss over your hand. You smiled softly at him.

“It’s okay, Azi.” His head shot up and he stared, wide eyed in wonder. You had been the only person to call him that, and he admittedly missed the sound of it while you weren’t with him. You covered his hands with your other one, squeezing gently. “It’s okay.”

He could scarcely think. Or breathe, or do anything but blink at you like the besotted fool he was. You were here, in front of him, touching him, speaking to him, looking at him like _that,_ like perhaps you had missed him just as much as he had missed you. Out of instinct, out of an urge that had plagued him these long months that he had known you, he slowly lifted your bruising hand up to his lips, giving you plenty of time to pull away, to leave him and never set eyes on him again. When you did none of those things, he pressed a sweet, chaste kiss to your knuckles, and then another on the angry red spot that had hit the case. Your breath shuddered in your chest, and you could do nothing but stand there.

Conversations would be had, nothing too personal, nothing close to admitting whatever it was between you, but you didn’t need that. There was an _understanding_ that life without the other person was not worth the trouble. All was truly well.


	4. Part Four

This day, like many days, started off deceptively the same as always. Aziraphale had gotten up on the right side of the bed, the weather was not particularly noteworthy, and there was no string of minor accidents that would lead anyone to believe that this was going to be a Very Bad Day Indeed. Nevertheless, unbeknownst to most parties involved, this day was, in fact, going to be a Very Bad Day Indeed, possibly even The Worst Day Ever.

Aziraphale had been feeling happier than he could remember ever having been in his whole life. After you had shown up in his shop after weeks of not speaking to him, the two of you had spent very little time apart. You had resumed your habit of stopping by after work, much to Aziraphale’s great relief. He had missed you dearly, and he was enormously grateful that you had found it in your heart to forgive him. He shuddered when he thought of that night, remembering how terrified you had looked. Aziraphale had truly never felt quite as angry as he had when Crowley had insulted you, and it brought him right back to his younger days as a fiery agent of the Lord, smiting all who dared to cross Her. He had locked that part of him away, and until that fight with Crowley, he had all but forgotten about it. He’d decided very firmly that you would never again see him like that.

Today, Crowley had demanded that Aziraphale come over to his flat to make what he called an “Apocalypse Plan”. Things were getting rather sticky lately, and their search for the true Antichrist seemed fruitless. It was time, Crowley said, to bring out the “big guns”. What those guns were Aziraphale had no idea, but he could only hope that it wasn’t anything _too_ drastic. He had just bought his new coat, after all. He’d made a quick call to you before closing his shop and heading over to Crowley’s.

“I’m terribly sorry my dear, but I’m afraid I don’t know when I’ll be home. Crowley is rather—”

“Difficult. I know, Azi, it’s okay. Take your time.”

Warmth bloomed over Aziraphale, and he couldn’t help the tender smile that worked its way across his face. You were so full of understanding, something that he’d had precious few encounters with during his time on Earth. As much as he loved humans and all their little quirks and flaws, it sometimes bothered him that for most of his life, he had been completely alone. Sure, there was Crowley, and he was absolutely infuriating but somehow endearing, but he was a _demon_, after all. There were fundamental things that they just would never understand about each other, no matter how long they’d been friends. You were different. You accepted Aziraphale, never questioning him or teasing him (of course you teased him, but never about his weight, or his obsession with books, or the noises he made when eating sushi) or making him feel the way that the other angels invariably did. It was one of the many reasons he’d found he loved you for.

“Thank you, Y/N. I will call you if I get back earlier than I expect.”

“Thanks, Aziraphale. Have fun with Crowley! Give him my love.”

That was another thing. Aziraphale had been terrified that after such a disastrous first meeting, you would hate Crowley. Somehow, the exact opposite had happened, and after the two of you had gotten used to each other’s presence, you’d become fast friends. Aziraphale hadn’t realized how close the two of you had gotten until Crowley had yanked him into the back room of his shop one night and given him the sternest dressing-down the demon could probably muster, and promised that Aziraphale would regret ever having been created if he hurt you again. “Aren’t you meant to be on my side, dear boy?” Aziraphale had asked bemusedly, feeling very wrongfooted. “Oh, I am. I’ve already talked to her, she’s good. I just need to make sure that you don’t fuck this up, Angel.” Aziraphale had, through his tears, assured him that he had no intention of intentionally hurting you as long as you would have him (as a friend, of course).

“I will. See you soon, my dear.”

“See you. Bye!”

Aziraphale hung up, already missing the sound of your voice. He shut the lights off and headed out of the shop, locking the door behind him. Although he was a celestial being, and most definitely could make himself appear at Crowley’s door with little more than a thought, he found he enjoyed taking public transport. It was blessedly slower than riding in Crowley’s car, and it allowed him time to sit and watch the people around him. Aziraphale found himself strangely emotional as he looked around him at all the advances humans had made over the thousands of years he had walked among them. All the subtleties, the headphones in a young man’s ears, a little girl reading a book half the size of her head, a woman applying hand sanitizer. All these things made his heart ache with admiration. Yes, despite all the atrocities that humanity had perpetuated, Aziraphale knew that the vast majority of them were worth saving. He shifted in his seat, waiting for his stop.

* * *

Aziraphale hadn’t expected the absolute destruction that awaited him when Crowley opened his door twenty minutes later. Papers were littered everywhere, plastered on the wall, hanging from bits of string from the ceiling, and covering nearly every surface in the flat, including much of the floor. Aziraphale tilted his head, surveying the inexplicable damage.

“Are you…quite alright, dear boy?” Aziraphale inquired as Crowley shut the door behind him. Crowley came to stand beside him, and Aziraphale took the opportunity to look his friend over.

Crowley had always been obsessed with his appearance, even in the early days when self-grooming hadn’t quite been invented yet. Crowley was even worse than Aziraphale himself was at times, which was truly frightening. Today, however, seemed to be rather a large exception to the rule. Not one item on the demon’s body matched, even down to his feet, the left of which sported a thick, woolly sock, while the other was covered with bright green fabric with miniature snakes all over. “_At least he’s wearing trousers,” _Aziraphale thought gratefully. Crowley turned his wild and un-sunglassed eyes towards Aziraphale, and he quickly retracted his gratefulness. The day was not over yet.

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I be? I’m perfectly fine, nothing to worry about. Shall we sit?”

Aziraphale stared, feeling the gears turning almost painfully in his head. What on Earth had happened to Crowley? He had never acted this way, even during the chaos of the witch trials of the 16th and 17th centuries. He seemed…unhinged. As most people are no doubt aware, and if not, they can at the very least _assume_, an unhinged demon is a very dangerous demon. Aziraphale could do nothing but watch his friend as he pranced over to the desk at the center of the room, trying desperately to think of his next course of action. Crowley gestured impatiently at him and Aziraphale had no choice but to acquiesce. He was nearly to the desk when he was distracted by the sound of rustling leaves in the next room. He tilted his head, listening. His lips pursed in response to what he heard.

“Crowley, I’ve told you before that you simply must take better care of these creatures!” Aziraphale gasped, forgetting everything else. Crowley clicked his forked tongue dismissively.

“They’re just plants, Angel, I don’t understand why you’re always so concerned about them. And I don’t see any problems with them, anyway. Look at how green they are!” Aziraphale could tell that he had directed that last part to the plants, because they all gave a collective, terrified shudder. Aziraphale sighed in resignation and turned to the poor things, cooing and soothing their frayed nerves.

“Don’t mind him, my dears. You’re all lovely, no matter what the evil demon says—”

“I can hear you!”

Aziraphale ignored Crowley in favor of sending cool, calming thoughts to the plants. He didn’t leave them until their leaves stopped trembling. Feeling very satisfied with himself, Aziraphale turned back to the desk. He strode over and sat at one of the (significantly less ornate than Crowley’s own “throne”) chairs, shifting uncomfortably. He waited for Crowley to start explaining himself.

“As you know, the Antichrist is…missing—”

“You could, possibly, skip that bit seeing as we both know this part of the problem,” Aziraphale interjected. He was the very epitome of patience at the best of times, but this was decidedly _not_ the best of times, and he was quite eager to fix this mistake that was all Crowley’s fault and had absolutely no connection to Aziraphale whatsoever. The fate of the world as we know it was at stake, after all. Crowley huffed, clearly upset that Aziraphale had cut off his carefully practiced speech, but Aziraphale really couldn’t find it in him to care (This was a lie: Aziraphale cared a great deal).

“Fine.” Crowley hissed. He opened his mouth to say more, but he was interrupted by insistent knocking at the door.

Silence. Neither of them moved a muscle, staring wide-eyed at each other. Nothing happened for a moment, but then the knocks came again, louder than before. Aziraphale barely kept himself from letting out a pathetic whimper, earning him a deathly glare. Aziraphale started bouncing his leg, trying to resist the urge to open the door. As an angel, it was just not in his character to ignore someone, no matter the context. Crowley knew this about him and was trying to ease his anxiety.

**_“C’mon angel, leave it be. They’ll leave. It’s probably some teenager trying to sell magazine subscriptions.”_** Crowley thought at the angel. He knew immediately that he had used the wrong words because Aziraphale’s expression turned into one he knew well—it was the exact one he wore when complaining about how Crowley treated his plants. Aziraphale’s eyes were so full of compassion it nearly made the demon gag with its intensity.

** _“The poor child! They’re probably selling to provide for their family, or the like. Oh, Crowley, you know I can’t leave them out there!”_ **

Before Crowley could stop him, Aziraphale had jumped up from his chair and was rushing towards the door. A feeling of growing doom washed over him as Aziraphale disappeared behind the wall separating the front door from the rest of the flat. Something was horribly wrong.

Perhaps because he hadn’t been paying enough attention, or because his mind had been so preoccupied with the vision of the poor, snotty-nosed, raggedy youth swimming in his mind, but whatever it was, Aziraphale hadn’t picked up on the same ominous feeling as his demonic counterpart. Guileless, Aziraphale turned the doorknob and swung open the door. The sight that greeted him turned his stomach to lead and set his heart beating faster than it had the right to even think about working. He schooled his features into his usual, easy going smile, all the while thinking desperately at Crowley from across the flat.

** _“It’s angels. Stay quiet.”_ **

“Michael! And Uriel.” There was a flash of diamond-studded teeth, and Aziraphale felt his throat constrict. “And, ah, Sandalphon. What a surprise! W-What brings you here, exactly?”

“We could ask you the same thing, Aziraphale,” Michael responded, a terrifying glint in their eyes. “It is rather odd to find you here, of all places.” Aziraphale had no idea what to do. He had been caught out, finally, after all these millennia, and he was going to be discorporated, or worse, and there was nothing he could do about it. He was finished. He would never eat sushi again, never dance the gavotte, never see Y/N—

“Here? Whatever do you mean?” Aziraphale inquired, trying to look as innocent as a very clearly guilty person could. Sandalphon snarled but Michael silenced him with a look.

“Here as in the known residence of the demon Crowley, the very same Crowley that you have been providing reports on for last 200,000 years. How very interesting that we would find you here, in his home.” Uriel had always had such a knack for quiet intimidation, and she used it now. Aziraphale gulped, shifting from one foot to the other. He had to think of something, and quickly. Sandalphon broke from the group and moved closer to Aziraphale, so close that Aziraphale nearly went cross-eyed looking down his nose at the shorter being. The angel sniffed at his coat, taking one of the worn lapels and rubbing it in between his clawed fingers.

“Hmm. Smells evil.” He stepped back into rank, glaring at Aziraphale. Aziraphale swallowed hard, praying for strength.

“Well, ah, that would be because…” He trailed off, wracking his brain for anything, literally _anything_, to tell them. As they were essentially Gabriel’s innermost circle of confidantes in Heaven, Aziraphale knew that if he let them leave this place thinking that he had been working with the enemy instead of against, that would be the end of everything.

**“What’s going on?” **He heard Crowley thinking at him.

**“Shut up! And stay that way.” **He could feel Crowley’s indignation, but he obeyed.

“’Because’ what, Aziraphale?” Michael demanded. Aziraphale looked between the three angels, and suddenly, out of nowhere, the words flooded into his mind.

“Because I was doing surveillance!” Aziraphale blurted before he’d had the chance to think about it. The angels frowned, skeptical.

“Surveillance?” Uriel repeated, sharing a look with Michael. Aziraphale nodded, feeling his heart rate slow as his anxiety left him.

“Surveillance, my friends. I have been monitoring Crowley’s actions more closely since the birth of the Antichrist. I decided to have a bit of a peek around here to see if he had any…”

“Information?” Sandalphon supplied.

“That’s the ticket! Information. Unfortunately, you arrived not long after I did, so I haven’t been able to find anything of note just yet—”

“Well, then, let us help you, Aziraphale!” Michael interrupted, moving to push past him into the flat. Aziraphale grabbed their arm, keeping them from moving any further. “What in—”

“Crowley can’t sense my presence, with me being but lowly principality in comparison to you. You, being an Archangel, I can imagine that even Crowley would be able to tell if you’d been in his flat. Your imminence.” Aziraphale saw the slight blush that appeared on Michael’s face at his words. They had always been a bit of a narcissist, and the fastest way into their good spirits would always be cheap and simply flattery. They stepped back, straightening their blazer and clearing their throat.

“That is true. Even so low a demon as Crowley would be able to sense my power. Very well, then, Aziraphale, I’ll leave you to it. But know that we” they gestured to their companions. Uriel smirked at him while Sandalphon grinned, showing off his sparkling, sharpened teeth. “are watching you.”

With that, the three of them vanished. Aziraphale was left in corridor alone, still trying to come to terms with what had just happened. Slowly he realized that the taste of miracles lingered in his mouth, dancing on the tip of his tongue. This was no ordinary miracle, however. This miracle tasted of mana, of saltwater taffy and just a hint of last week’s winning lottery numbers. How odd. Aziraphale spun around and raced back into the flat to relay everything to Crowley.

“So your people are onto us. Of course it would happen now, of all times. We’ve just gotta be more careful…Angel? What’s wrong?” Crowley had caught sight of the expression on Aziraphale’s face; one of complete and utter despair, like all his dreams had come crashing down around him all at once. Alarmed, the demon pushed out of his chair and came closer to his friend. “Hey, it’s not that bad, we’ve prepared for this—”

“Y/N.” Aziraphale lifted his head to look Crowley in the eye. “She’s in danger. If they’ve been watching me, then they know about her and if they don’t already, they will know soon enough.” Crowley slumped, knowing it was true. He also knew what Aziraphale was about to do next.

“I can’t see her anymore.” If Crowley had had a heart, it would have broken into a million tiny pieces at the raw despair in the Angel’s voice. He knew how you both felt about each other, and how, after spending all that time apart, having to break off your growing relationship off once again would destroy both of you. He said nothing. “They will kill her, Crowley.”

“I know.” Neither of them said anything after that. Aziraphale took a deep, shuddering breath, opened his mouth as if to talk, but then shut it again. Crowley put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“But I also know that if you push her away like this, after what happened before, she might not come back,” When Aziraphale met his eyes, he knew that that didn’t matter to the Angel. He loved you so much that keeping you safe meant more to him than being near you. Crowley gave his friend’s shoulder a squeeze and nodded.

* * *

You were running late, not that it truly mattered. Aziraphale had called you an hour ago to tell you that he had, in fact, gotten home from Crowley’s earlier than expected and that you could come over for a spot of cocoa if you wished. You had spent almost 45 minutes trying to get dressed. For whatever reason, you’d decided to try and look nice for a change, rather than your usual scrubs or wrinkled work clothes. A random idea had popped into your head, making you wonder how Aziraphale would react to seeing you in make up for the first time. So, wearing one of your nicest blouses and skirts with your least favorite pair of achy heels, you were speed walking down Aziraphale’s street. The familiar feeling of butterflies in your belly increased in intensity the closer you got to the shop. Maybe today was the day you would finally tell him how you truly felt about him. Then again, maybe it wasn’t.

You weren’t expecting to see Aziraphale standing in the middle of the main room of the shop. Usually he was off in the back or upstairs even, but it was rare to see him out front. Especially when he wasn’t shelving books, which he definitely wasn’t. You frowned, closing the door behind you and moving to stand in front of him. There was something…off about the man today, something that you couldn’t quite put your finger on, but you knew it was there regardless.

“Azi, wha—”

“Hello, Y/N. May I get you some of that cocoa?” Aziraphale started, as though you’d never opened your mouth. You could tell that something was well and truly wrong now—Aziraphale didn’t have an impolite bone in his body. He would never cut you off when you were trying to speak. Your frown deepened as you tried to look him in the eyes, but he stared resolutely at a point just above your head.

“No, Aziraphale, what’s the matter?” He tilted his head to the side, eyebrows scrunched together as he looked down at you.

“’The matter’? Nothing’s the matter. Everything is fine, my dear.” He paused. You watched as his expression, already more shuttered that you had ever seen it, darken even further, making his face go blank. You were shocked. You had never seen Aziraphale like this, and you had no idea what had happened to make him so…angry? You couldn’t tell. All you could do was wait for him to continue.

A war was raging inside of Aziraphale, as it had been for the last few hours. A million possibilities floated around his mind, each one more ludicrous than the last. He could tell you that he was going on holiday and that you would see him in oooh…never because the world was doomed to end within the year. He could tell you that an old relation had passed away and that he needed to go home to Wales to settle the…whatever it was that humans settled when a loved one died. He could tell you the truth, that he loved you too much to keep you, that he was of the second-highest choir of angels and that some very bad angels were hunting for his golden blood as you spoke. Or he could say nothing, invite you upstairs for some telly and cuddling and continue living in this little bubble that the two of you have lovingly and tenderly created for yourselves. You could go on living in happiness…until, of course, Gabriel found out and smote you quite dead. The thought sent a trail of ice racing down his spine. He shook his head violently. Crowley’s lie it was, then.

“Actually, there is something that I need to speak with you about.” On instinct, your had shot out and reached for his but he pulled his hand back out of your reach. Hurt, you stared at him in shock. What the _hell_ was happening? Was he breaking up with you? Not that the two of you were in a real relationship just yet, but after your talk, after everything, was this the end? Before it had even started? You refused to believe that your Azi could be so cruel.

“I…I can’t. I can’t do this.” Came the harsh nail in the coffin of your dreams. Tears sprang to your eyes but you held them back valiantly. Aziraphale could see them, trembling on your bottom eyelid, threatening to fall and to ruin this whole thing. His next words came out in a hurry, as though he was afraid if he didn’t say them quickly, he wouldn’t say them at all. Perhaps that was true.

“This. Us.” He gestured between the two of you. “It’s…superfluous. I’m done with it and I am done with you. You were convenient, naieve and willing at a time when I was bored and lonely. That’s over now, and so is this. You can’t come to the shop anymore. Don’t call me because I won’t answer the phone. We’re done.” 

Now, it is important that you know that angels don’t need to breathe. Well, perhaps that is a bit extreme. They do breathe, they have working cardiorespiratory systems that pump their golden blood throughout their bodies, just not with the same frequency as other life forms. In fact, an angel can hold their breath for years, which you may take anyway you wish. But in this moment, Aziraphale struggled to draw breath. As he watched the tears fall down your cheeks, ruining the liner and mascara that you had no doubt spent a great deal of time perfecting, he knew that there was no coming back from this. You would leave him, you would grow to hate him, if you didn’t already. He would never see you again.

But at least he knew you would be safe.

Aziraphale turned, unable to torture himself any further by watching you cry in front of him and not doing anything about it. His fingers itched to take you into his arms and hold you, to take back everything he had just said, but he restrained himself. This was how it had to be. He squared his shoulders, speaking without turning back,

“I’m sure you can show yourself out.” That was it. The last time he would ever lay eyes on you and he couldn’t even bring himself to look you in the eye. Gabriel was right, he had always been right. God had made some terrible mistake, appointing him a Principality. “Angel of the Eastern Gate” his divine bollocks. More like sniveling, fat coward who fails at everything and—

Aziraphale looked down to see your hand, smaller and softer than his own, covering his. He frowned at it, his grief-addled brain taking longer than normal to come up with an explanation. Surely you had stormed out of the shop in angry tears, vowing to hate the thought of him forever. How could your hand be here, slipping its fingers through his and intertwining themselves together as though they belonged that way? He turned his head, seeing that your hand was, in fact, connected to your arm, which was, surprise upon surprise, connected to _you. _You were still there, blotchy faced and bright-eyed, but still there, standing in his shop, stubbornly refusing to leave even after he had said all those terrible things to you. He raised an eyebrow at you, feeling faint headed.

“Do you hate me?” You asked, feeling very brace. Aziraphale turned around to face you fully, unable to believe what you had just asked him.

“No! Not—”

“Did I do something to offend you? Or to make you angry with me?” Aziraphale shook his head. He had to force you to leave him, but he found that he couldn’t let you leave thinking that he felt those awful things about you.

“Then why are you doing this to me? Is someone forcing you for whatever reason. Just tell me the truth, Azi,” At this, she gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I will try to understand.”

And it was then, that Aziraphale finally understood. Of course you would . You were kind, and patient, and the most forgiving soul he had ever met on Earth. Of course you would see through his veneer and into his true self, the one that called out to you even as he tried to push you away. He didn’t say anything at first, trying to filter his words and find the right things to say. Being as perfect as you always were, you stood there, eagerly waiting but not pushing. He did not deserve you in his life. He stepped forwards, bringing his free hand to grasp your other hand. He brought them up to his chest, resting over his heart.

“Alright. Alright, I am going to tell you something, but I cannot explain, and I cannot tell you anything more than what I am about to say. You must promise me that you won’t ask any questions until I tell you to.”  
“When will that be?” Aziraphale cracked a small smile, but it melted away as soon as it had appeared.

“I’m afraid I don’t know, my dear. But you must trust me. Please.” He could see the familiar fire of defiance in your eyes as you hesitated to respond. But once again, he stood in awe as you nodded.

“Yes. Of course I trust you, Azi. Tell me what’s wrong.” He was not able to stop himself from bending his neck to press a grateful kiss to your hands. You gasped quietly but said nothing. He began.

“Thank you. You’ve no idea how much that means to me. I’ll get straight to it: being with me puts you in a very real, very serious sort of danger. Know that I wouldn’t dream of putting you through all of this unless it was so serious. I cannot bear the thought that your life may be in danger because of me.” He paused, watching your face, trying to figure out what you were thinking. He could read your mind, of course, but that would be terribly improper. Instead, he had to deal with this the hard way—difficult conversation.

“So…my life is in danger?”

“When you are with me, yes. I am truly sorry, Y/N. I wish things were different. I find that I…” He trailed off, caught in your beloved gaze, and he found that he could no longer hold back. Not when this was the last time he would be with you. It was now or never, and never was certainly not a legitimate option. “I find that I have fallen in love with you. Yes. I…I love you, Y/N, and that is exactly why I must keep you as far away from me as I can. I need you to be safe, and I would never forgive myself if something happened to you because of me.”

Your face did the most extraordinary thing. For a second, you stared at Aziraphale, understandably overwhelmed with all of this new information he had thrown at you. He waited, as courteous as ever, for you to piece it all together. When you did, your face bloomed into the most radiant smile Aziraphale had ever seen. His heart leapt in his chest at the sight, so wholly unprepared for something so beautiful.

“I understand. I really do understand, Aziraphale.” You said, inexplicably. Aziraphale felt on the verge of tears as he looked at you and saw that you were telling the truth. Hope flooded him, fierce and intense, and for the first time in hours, he thought that maybe he didn’t have to lose you forever. Maybe this wasn’t goodbye. You kept going. “I can’t say that this doesn’t hurt, because it does. Because…I love you too. I have done for months and I’ve always been too afraid to tell you. But I might as well tell you now, so you don’t go moping around without me.” You both chuckled at that. You stayed still for a few moments, drinking in this last bit of time together for the foreseeable future. You knew it couldn’t last, however much you wanted it to, and so eventually, you pulled your hands gently out of his and took a step back.

“So this is goodbye, I suppose?” You asked, already missing his warmth. He nodded, feeling much the same way.

You stood and watched each other, trying to commit the other’s face to memory. Neither of you knew when you would be seeing each other again. Impulsively, you sprung forwards, startling Aziraphale with your sudden movement towards him. He wasn’t sure what you were up to, but he found out almost instantaneously, as he felt your soft lips press a small kiss against his cheeks. Heat rushed through his body, but he was able to control himself—barely. He blinked stupidly as you pulled away, smiling mischievously at him. You were still very close to him, so close that he could see the flecks of gold in your eyes that he adored so much. You fidgeted with his coat, and Aziraphale had to keep himself from wincing at the thought that you were fingering the same place that Sandalphon had earlier. He let you continue, content to watch and wait. You eventually did what you had set out to do, which was straighten his lapels and collar, and you patted his chest in satisfaction. You sighed and looked up at him.

“Come back to me, Azi, okay?” Aziraphale’s hands came up, entirely of their own volition, to grip tightly around her waist in response.

“Of course I will! I promise, my love, I will come back to you once all of this…kerfuffle is over.”

A little while later, you were leaving, turning, walking out of the bookshop and away from Aziraphale.

* * *

“There she is!”

“Hush, you’ll get us caught!”

“Sorry, I’m just so…”

“I know. One my mark…now!”

* * *

_“Authorities are asking for anyone who has any information about the possible whereabouts of the missing person to please call 999. Can you repeat that information for our listeners, Bob?”_

_“Of course, Janet. Her name is Y/N L/N, and she is believed to have been kidnapped on her way home late last night. Please, keep both her and her family and friends in your prayers tonight.” _

_“Thank you, Bob. Now on to the weather. Sue?” _


	5. Part Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a forewarning: This got darker than I was expecting it to. There is a semi-graphic description of a kidnapping and of a kinda torturey-type situation (NO ACTUAL TORTURE!!) Please read with caution and if you see something that I should have a warning about up here for other readers, let me know.
> 
> Additionally, I used they/them pronouns for Michael and it/its pronouns for Sandalphon (from the script). I wanted to make that clear in case my writing caused any confusion. I'm not at all confident in this chapter for a number of reasons, but it was a necessary chapter to write no matter how high above my actual writing talents it was lol. Let me know what YOU think of it, though!

Michael was not stupid. They were not dimwitted, or blinded by heavenly goodness, or any of the things that they could very easily accuse their fellow celestial beings of…being. They had been paying the Angel Aziraphale very close attention these past millennia, and they had seen exactly what they had expected; the Angel had gone native. Worse than that, he had gone native _and _he was fraternizing with the enemy. THE enemy. El Numero Uno. The Demon Crowley.

Because Michael was none of the things mentioned above, they had quite a bit of room to be some other things, like cunning, vigilant, and good at waiting for just the right moment. They didn’t bring the aforementioned knowledge to Gabriel’s attention straight away for the sake of…strategy. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that the Archangel-Fucking-Gabriel wasn’t the only gosh darned Archangel around (and that’s with a capital ‘A’, thank you very much), and so there really was no pressing need for Michael to give the information in the first place, now that they thought about it. They could investigate on their own, build up a solid case, and then work from there. Maybe get some respect around the elitist promotion trap that was their Heavenly home. If only.

Michael enlisted Uriel, knowing that she would be invaluable when looking for documents or anything paper related. She had the memory for things exactly like that. Michael brought Sandalphon precisely because they knew that Aziraphale was still terrified of it after what happened at Sodom and Gomorrah. Together, they monitored Aziraphale’s every move—although the angel had somehow devised a way to keep the group from ever being able to overhear any of his traitorous conversations with the hated Crowley, they weren’t deterred in the slightest bit. They could follow the pair, take pictures, perhaps the odd selfie when the mood hit. Michael was building their case against Aziraphale, and it was only a matter of time.

Armageddon threw everything into quite a pretty mess, now didn’t it? Aziraphale was openly discussing his meetings with his “wily adversary”, reporting on the current status and whereabouts of the Antichrist (Warlock. What a revolting name). Things were starting to get fun for the first time in about a hundred years, and Michael simply didn’t have the time for their surveillance missions anymore. Not to mention that Gabriel was demanding that they all stay together as often as possible, which was a nightmare in and of itself. Michael was rather looking forward to the end of the world, not for the gargantuan blood bath that would ensue, as most of their angelic associates where no doubt panting for, but for the endless peace that comes after a job well done.

One day, when the Antichrist (still Warlock, despite Michael’s very best efforts) was 10, nearly 11, Michael noticed something very strange about the familiar bookshop that they and the rest of the group had been watching for the last couple of centuries. There was a woman, well-dressed (Michael assumed. Angels, _proper_ Angels, that is, Aziraphale not included, have no real sense of human fashion), practically cantering down the pavement, apparently towards Aziraphale’s shop. “_No, that can’t be right,” _Michael thought to themselves. Although, thinking back, that woman did look strikingly familiar. So familiar, in fact, that—

“Uriel! Take a look at this.” Michael had rolled their rolly chair away from their workstation and towards the cubicle to the right of theirs. Uriel popped her head around the weird, cloth divider separating their “offices” with a curious expression.

“Yes, Michael? What is it?” The other angel asked from her rolly chair. Michael gestured that she should roll her rolly chair into Michael’s cubicle.

“I’ve found something strange in the Eden files, take a look at it.” The Eden files was their special code name for anything pertaining to Aziraphale that was not, strictly, on the books. This strange something happened to be a livestream of the street where Aziraphale lived. The woman was getting closer to the shop, although not quite close enough to tell if that was, indeed, where she was going. Michael pointed the woman out to Uriel.

“Now. She looks awfully familiar to me.” Michael’s gaze drifted from the picture to Uriel sitting beside them. Uriel had her thinking face on, which could mean one of a million different things and by this point in their long, coworker relationship, Michael had learned to just let her think. Uriel frowned slightly, moved closer to the screen, tapped a single key on the keyboard in front of them on Michael’s desk, and rewound the feed. She paused it. Zoomed in. Michael wondered why it was so difficult for the Management to install some touchscreens on the ground floor, at least for the Archangels and Possibly a few of the Principalities. They’d seen inside of Gabriel’s office (Yes! A whole, bloody corner office with glass windows instead of walls so that he can survey the worker bees in their nest and not one but TWO whole touchscreens!), after all. Uriel snapped her fingers in front of Michael’s face.

“Michael? Were you listening?” Michael, as you know, had not been listening. At all.

“Of course, Uriel. What was that last bit, again?” Uriel sighed and pointed at the woman zeroed in on.

“She visits the shop almost every day. She might be important.” Michael leaned forward in their rolly chair, squinting at the grainy image despite the fact that every angel had perfect 100/100 eyesight. They hummed.

“Yes. I quite agree. Sandalphon?” They called out the name of the coworker whose cubicle stood on the left side of theirs. They heard the familiar sound of the rolly chair growing nearer until Sandalphon sat beside the two other angels. Michael pointed to the woman on the screen.

“Let’s keep an eye on her.” They all watched as Uriel unpaused and the woman entered the shop.

* * *

They did not have to wait long for the woman to make another move. Only a few hours later, she was hurrying out of the doors, clutching onto her purse and…crying?

“He doesn’t hold on to them long, does he?” Sandalphon remarked, rubbing its forefinger across its teeth diamonds. Uriel giggled but sobered when Michael glared at her. This was not the time for making jokes. That woman was certainly a human woman, there was no doubt about that. Why was she spending so much time around Aziraphale? Why had she run sobbing from his shop? Was this like that holiday Aziraphale took with Alexander the Great? Michael very dearly hoped not—Aziraphale had positively ruined that poor boy.

“Keep your focus on that woman. We need to learn more about her.”

The kept the feed trained on her as she made her way home. She didn’t live too far from Aziraphale’s shop. But just far enough that walking was just slightly out of her way. Uriel, the more softhearted of the bunch of angels huddled around the screen, wondered whether they should miracle her a taxicab, but she was quickly shut down.

“What, and give ourselves away? Gabriel would have our halos!” Michael exclaimed, shifting in their chair. Once the woman was in the door, Michael cut the feed, gaining the attention of the others. They cleared their throat.

“Ahem. So. Not only has Aziraphale been seen consistently in the presence of known Demon Crowley, but he also appears to have developed some sort of relationship with a…mortal woman. Once again, Aziraphale proves that he does not have the strength required to walk among them. Instead, he cavorts with them, befriends them—”

“Runs a _bookshop,_” Sandalphon growled helpfully. Michael nodded appreciatively.

“—and runs a bookshop. Clearly, he is no longer fit for his position.”

“That’s all well and good, Michael, but he can’t be removed from said position. Only the Almighty can deal with that level of personnel change.” Uriel reminded them calmly. Michael sighed deeply.

“I know that. We all know that. The only problem is something must be done about it. Aziraphale can no longer be allowed to continue this way. It’s heinous.” All the angels nodded their head in mutual agreement. They all tried to think of something they could do, but nothing seemed to jump out at anyone. It stayed like this for a few long moments before suddenly, Sandalphon gasped loudly, startling the other two.

“I know!” it said. “The girl. She’s important to him, right?” Uriel scoffed.

“She did just run from his shop in tears, Sandalphon, did you miss that part?” It was unfazed by Uriel’s goading.

“Exactly. It’s Aziraphale! He’s so soft, he’ll go groveling for her forgiveness within a fortnight. And when he does…”

“They’ll make up with each other. Where are you going with this?” Michael interjected impatiently, not in the mood for idle chatter. Sandalphon grinned, its teeth glinting in the Holy light.

“We kidnap her. Get us in Gabriel’s good books, get some information, and, of course, to scare powe ickle bitty Aziwaphawe. Perfect plan.”

* * *

It was not, as it happens, the Perfect Plan. However, credit is due where credit is due, and that credit goes to Sandalphon for thinking of a Nearly-Perfect Plan. It would have been the Perfect Plan had Aziraphale and that blasted woman not been so stubborn and stayed apart for so long. The days until the Antichrist’s birthday were slowly running out, and the time during which the angels could execute said plan was drawing thin. Thankfully, the two made up just in the nick of time, so it had worked out in the end.

The trio had made the trip to Crowley’s flat, knowing that they would find Aziraphale there. Aziraphale had been flustered, but his story about checking about in the demon’s abode appeared to check out. Michael refused to take their eyes off of him the entire time. After they miracled away, they appeared in an alleyway not far from the woman’s home, and on her usual route. Michael had decided, because Michael was a little bit of an ass at times, to make the mystery just a smudge more difficult by abducting the woman outside of the home BUT simultaneously leaving a single, white wing feather on the floor of her locked flat. It really was quite devious for such a pure-hearted creature. Hmm.

The kidnapping went swimmingly. Uriel snuck up behind the woman, Sandalphon had thrown the bag over her head, and once everything was settled (or as settled as can be with a kicking and struggling woman in tow), Michael miracle them into a top-secret location. I’m afraid that I, as the author, am not at liberty to disclose the location of the following events, because of course I’d have to kill you afterwards, and I’d rather not do that.

* * *

Angels do not have dreams. Angels cause dreams in other people, they take away dreams from other people, and they may, upon occasion, serve as conduits for messages from the Almighty, which often appear to other people as dreams. But Angels themselves do not dream. Except for Aziraphale, evidently, whose subconscious had decided to do away with the natural order of things to just…you know…spice it up a little. Aziraphale frowned deeply in his sleep and rolled over, sniffling.

He was in a corridor. There were no lights, only a faint glow that seemed to come from nowhere at all. There was one door, ahead of him, but the rest of the corridor was bare, empty grey concrete. He began to move towards the door, but the corridor seemed to get longer the closer he got, until he was nearly running, trying to make some progress down the hall but never moving one inch.

The scene changed, the corridor erupting into grey and black smoke that smelt faintly of saltwater taffy. The scene reconstructed itself as a square room lit with an old-fashioned lightbulb swinging slowly back and forth from the ceiling. There was a figure shivering on a metal chair in the center of the room, hands tied behind their back and a sack over their head. Aziraphale heard whimpering from the figure and made to rush over to help them but he found that his feet were rooted to the ground, as though someone had glued them straight to the floor. Aziraphale looked up from his shoes and gasped.

Surrounding the figure were Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon. Michael stood directly in front of the figure, bending over slightly. Sandalphon stood directly behind the figure, fingers grasping at the sack. Uriel stood apart from them both, in the corner opposite to Aziraphale. Michael made a motion at Sandalphon and it yanked the sack off of the person’s head to reveal—

Y/N. Eyes red from crying, hair a mess, makeup smudged and beyond repair. Aziraphale felt his heart stop beating. What the hell was going on? Was this some kind of joke? A voice, nagging at the edge of his consciousness told him that no, it was not a joke. Aziraphale struggled against whatever was holding his feet down with renewed vigor. He stopped when he heard your voice, hoarse and trembling. It broke him to hear you like that.

“W-who are you? What do you w-want from me?” You coughed, and Aziraphale felt a miracle dance along the tip of his fingers. He would make you well again, he would heal whatever has happened to you. You continued. “I have m-money if that’s it! It’s n-not m-m-much but—”

“Silly girl, we don’t want your money.” Came Sandalphon’s voice.

“Mmm, that’s right.” Michael responded. They leaned in closer to you, and you sank deeper into the chair to escape them. “What we want is information.”

“Wh-What? What information? I don’t- “

“What do you know of the Angel Aziraphale?” Azriaphale’s blood went cold. He had been so close to telling you himself! After all of the Armageddon mess was straightened out, he had promised himself, he would march right up to you and tell you the truth. But not now! Not when he couldn’t be there to explain, when you were hurting, _being _hurt, tied up like some criminal. A noise horribly like a snarl erupted from Aziraphale’s throat, startling him. Was he truly invisible in this room? After a couple of seconds of pure terror, Aziraphale’s pulse began to slow and he realized that this was most likely a vision dream, a message from someone showing him something that was either already happening, or about to happen. He prayed to anyone who would listen that it was neither of those two options.

“I swear I don’t know!” The sound of your terrified voice brought him back. Sandalphon laughed its ugly laugh and Michael chuckled.

“Should we really be doing this, Michael?” Uriel inquired softly from her spot in the corner. Aziraphale was sure he was just projecting his terror onto her, but he thought he could almost see a hint of concern in her deep black eyes. Michael just shook their head.

“It’s not as though she’ll have very long to remember it, will she?” At this, your body seized in horror, eyes open wide in shock. Fresh tears were streaming down your cheeks. Aziraphale wanted to burn this room to the ground.

“Are…are you going to kill me?” you whispered through your crying. Aziraphale held his breath to listen for the answer:

“Oh, dear me, of course not. Do you know how much paperwork that would be? Oh no. Definitely not killing you. As long as you give us the information we need.” Came Michael’s reply.

Aziraphale felt that old rage bubble up inside him, and his sword hand itched, as though the missing sword were a missing limb instead. He took a deep breath and clenched his hands into fists. He would not debase himself in such an appalling manner. He had grown since those days, and he would not be brought to his knees by a _dream._

“I told you, I don’t know anything!” you pleaded desperately. The room was beginning to fade away, smoke swirling at the edges, illuminated by the swinging bulb. Aziraphale cried out, reaching out for you only to be met with empty air.

“Oh, we’ll see about that, now, won’t we?”

The last thing Aziraphale heard before waking was the sound of Michael’s laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason I love the idea of the angels working in like a office/cubicle situation! Like a lil' corporation.


	6. NOT A CHAPTER!!

Hiya! I'm afraid I most likely won't be able to post an update today, as I'll be very busy packing for a long trip in addition to cleaning my house and all that nonsense. I will, however, have ample amounts of free time tomorrow, so if I don't post the new chapter today, rest assured that it will be uploaded by tomorrow night. Thank you for all your lovely comments, they truly do encourage me (and make me feel warm and fluffy inside!). 

Much love,

Jay <3


	7. Part Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to let you lovelies know that we're coming up on the end of this adventure. There are three chapters plus an epilogue planned, but that is subject to change. I am tossing around ideas for the sequel, but I also have a multi-chapter fic for a different fandom in the works that I'm probably going to focus on once this is done to give me a bit of a break (I can give more information if y'all are interested in it). I have loved writing this story, its basically my baby at this point! Thank you for all your kind comments, and know that this kid loves ya! <3

The Archangel Gabriel was bored. With Armageddon well underway, it was only a matter of letting things take their course, so there really wasn’t anything for Gabriel to do. It was _exhaustively _tedious. There were only so many games of piggaloo (a game invented by angels sometime during Earth’s Golden Age. I won’t explain the rules to you, as it’s far too complicated for any mortal to understand. (Off the record, it is strikingly similar to Uno.)) one could play before one’s interest completely flew away from them. Gabriel was not used to feeling bored. This was an entirely new position for him to be in, and he did not like it one bit. That was part of the reason that he was so overjoyed when Michael came into his corner office one day. Gabriel had been playing Flappy Bird on his phone when the other Archangel tapped on the door to get his attention. Gabriel threw his phone down and straightened up, trying to give off the impression that he had been Very Busy Indeed. He failed.

“Ahem! Michael! What can I do for you?” Michael smiled widely, and Gabriel thought, not for the first time, that there was something…off about the other angel. He had often dismissed the idea as nonsense because that’s exactly what it was—no heavenly creature could possibly be less than perfect. They had all been made in the Almighty’s image, after all. To criticize an angel would be to criticize God herself and, well, one simply did not do that. No, whatever Gabriel saw in Michael’s smile that put him off was nothing more than his imagination. He smiled back at them, wondering what flavor of ambrosia he would absorb after this was over.

“Well, Gabriel, it’s not really what _you_ can do for _me_, but rather, what _I_ can do for _you_.” This piqued Gabriel’s interest. As a business-minded individual, Gabriel was always on the look out for opportunities such as these—Quid Pro Quos that delivered the goods. He was rather good at negotiating, after all. Gabriel motioned for Michael to continue.

“Explain.”

Michael grinned their disturbing grin. With a snap of their fingers, Michael had miracled them both out of Gabriel’s office. When they reappeared, they were standing in a dark corridor that was largely empty save for one of those prison doors with a sliding window near the top. Gabriel turned and frowned at his fellow Archangel.

“Am I supposed to know what this means?” he asked them, confused. Michael was typically much more ‘to-the-point’ than this, very rarely resorting to puzzles or guessing games. Whatever they had to say, they came right out and said it. The feeling of unease he’d felt earlier when Michael had started smiling grew tenfold.

“It turns out that Aziraphale is in deeper than we ever could have imagined,” Michael began, putting their hands behind their back and affecting a very official-looking pose. “Not only has he been fraternizing with the enemy, but he has been seen, on multiple occasions, to be in the company of a mortal woman.”

Gabriel’s frowned deepened, and he found himself wishing that he’d kept his door closed that day, as was his usual custom. Lately, Michael and the other angels had been pestering him about Aziraphale, questioning every move he made with suspicion and derision. Gabriel knew that Aziraphale had probably been on Earth for too long, that he had probably been going native for quite some time, but Gabriel didn’t really mind. You see, Gabriel knew that if Aziraphale was reassigned to Heaven, the possibility that he would quickly rise through the ranks to oust Gabriel himself would be far too realistic. Gabriel remembered Aziraphale in the olden days when he served as God’s personal Enforcer. None of the angels would dare to cross either one of them, such was the sheer power that Aziraphale and his flaming sword wielded. He was terrifying, full of righteous anger and so strong and beloved by their Lord. Bring him back to the source of his power, especially after such a long time away, and there was no telling what could happen. No, Aziraphale was much better off with his dirty little pets. Far, far away from posing anyone a true threat. Gabriel gave a long-suffering sigh.

“Michael, you know that means nothing. He’s around those things every day, for God’s sake! Now, if this is all—”

“He’s in love with her, Gabriel. He said it himself, I heard it. They’ve been…cavorting with each other for months. She goes to his shop every day. You know what” They pointed up towards Heaven, “would think about that, don’t you?”

Gabriel knew _exactly _what ‘up there’ would think about that. The first word out of her mouth would be “abomination”. Aziraphale’s mission was to monitor the humans, to keep track of their progress throughout time, and to keep tabs on the Demon Crowley. The one thing he was forbidden to do, above all else, was to fall in love with them. He had failed in the past, Alexander the Great and William Shakespeare being two outstanding examples, but neither incident had lasted for too long and, as far as Gabriel was aware, none of them had gotten more serious than a weekend trip to the Alps. This new information was unsettling, indeed.

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation for all of this, Michael, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s just pop down and ask him, okay? And this whole thing will be worked out—”

“I have something much better than that.” Michael interrupted him _again_. Gabriel was getting more annoyed with them by the second. No one interrupted the Archangel Fucking Gabriel and got away with it. The only reason that Michael was still standing there was because of God’s pesky “Angels can’t kill other angels without the consent of the Most High God” rule. And, Gabriel had to admit, a tiny sliver of curiosity. Gabriel kept his mouth shut.

“Now, I need you to promise me that when this door opens, you’ll give me the chance to explain. You’re going to want to object, I know, but just hear me out.” Tired of the game that Michael was playing, Gabriel nodded, cursing them inwardly in 75 different languages. Michael nodded and stepped forward, waving her hand over the door’s lock. The door opened to reveal a square, stone room with a single bulb hanging down from the ceiling. It was swinging, though what moved it was a complete mystery to Gabriel. As it moved side to side, the eerie yellow light it cast down moved as well, making shadows dance along the walls and around the lone figure sitting on a chair in the center of the room.

The figure was not moving, but Gabriel could sense their soul, thrashing and fighting and still very much alive. There was what looked to be a potato sack drawn over the figure’s head, so Gabriel couldn’t see what they looked like, only that the figure seemed feminine. They were wearing what had clearly once been a nice outfit, an objectively pretty skirt and blouse. Their feet were bare and dirty, like the rest of them. Gabriel could assume what had happened to them. He turned to Michael, who had been watching him expectantly.

“Please don’t tell me that you’ve captured that poor woman.” Michael raised an eyebrow at him.

“I’m afraid that I cannot do that, Gabriel.”

Gabriel was not usually a murderous angel, but Michael had proven time and time again that there was always an exception to every rule. He could feel his power gathering within him; it had been so long since he’d been able to truly test himself. He was sure that having a subordinate scurry underneath his nose like this, kidnapping and mistreating a mortal would be more than enough of a reason for some good, old-fashioned punishment, if not a full smiting. THe paperwork would be dreadful but oh so worth it—

“Gabriel, wait. Let me explain, you promised me that.” Michael had taken a step back, wisely. They held their arms up, palms turned outward in defense. Gabriel hesitated, a Michael-less life of bliss flashing before his eyes, before he slumped. He had promised them, barely, and an Angel’s word is as good as law.

“Alright, fine. You have five minutes to explain yourself.” He glared down at them. “This had better be good, Michael.” The figure, Aziraphale’s girlfriend, Gabriel supposed, stirred and groaned, but soon stilled. Gabriel crossed his arms and waited for Michael to start talking.

“Imagine. We have something that Aziraphale wants. We’ve never been able to bargain with him, and so he’s been able to do whatever he bloody well pleases down there, and She lets him. Well, not anymore. He’s going to start looking for her, and once he does, we can use her to reign him in. None of this…kerfuffle about the humans. We will finally be able to control him.” What a devastatingly appealing notion—taming this disaster of an Angel, whilst keeping him down on Earth for the time being. Gabriel was nearly sold, there was just one thing.

“What have you been doing to her? She looks…well, she looks awful.” At this, Michael sighed, directing their next statements towards the girl.

“Yes, that was mostly Sandalphon. You know how it gets carried away with these things, takes it right back to its glory days.” Gabriel jerked in shock.

“_Sandalphon_? You’ve been torturing her!” He watched in complete horror as Michael shrugged, that same ugly smile playing on the sides of their mouth.

“I’d also had the idea that since she spends so much time with Aziraphale, she might have picked up some information about the Demon Crowley as well. Sandalphon…volunteered.”

Freezing bursts of ice raced down his spine, making him shudder. Gabriel had never, ever been good with the thought of harming others, especially when he had to condone it. He would much rather send someone else to do it, rather than to have it on his own conscience. _“Isn’t that what’s happening, though?” _A voice whispered softly into his mind. _“You won’t have to do anything, just know that damned Angel is out of your hair. And maybe even that demon, too”._ Gabriel didn’t know where that voice had come from, but somewhere deep inside of him he knew that it was right. This was a perfect plan, and if Sandalphon got a little overzealous, well. At least it definitely wouldn’t kill her. Gabriel was pretty sure of that last part.

“Does anyone else know about this?” He asked.

“Only Uriel, and that’s only because she was there when I found the girl. I couldn’t kick her out now, and she can be so terribly useful sometimes.” Michael shifted their weight from one foot to the other and looked straight up at Gabriel. “So? What do you think?”

Gabriel paused. He still had doubts—the smear of blood on the woman’s arm made him want to gag—but something was pushing him to agree to this plan. His brain seemed to disconnect entirely from the rest of his body for a moment and he felt himself nod, even as he was trying to think of more questions to ask. His eyes trailed to the figure on the chair, lit only by that swinging light. There was only one answer he could give, _would _give.

“I like the way you think, Michael. Let’s give it a try.”

* * *

“So what, Aziraphale, you’ve had a nightmare—”

“Angels don’t have nightmares. We don’t even dream for Heaven’s sake!” Aziraphale interrupted, holding the phone to his ear so that he could wring his hands anxiously. As soon as he had awoken from his dream, he’d telephoned Crowley, hoping against hope that the demon would have some advice or comfort from him. He should have known better, but still. He sighed heavily.

“Not ever? Not even naughty dreams?” Crowley was teasing, but that didn’t stop Aziraphale from essentially blooming with a shockingly pink blush, traveling from the tips of his ears down to his neck and chest. He may not be of this world, but he had certainly been _in _it long enough to know what his terrible, awful, maddening friend was referring to. He refrained from sputtering indignantly, but only just.

“No. Not ever.” Aziraphale told him firmly, leaving no room for argument or further prodding. Crowley tsked but said nothing, thankfully. “Whatever it was, it means one thing and one thing only.”

“Which is?” Crowley drawled. Aziraphale bit his lip and looked down, the memory of that wretched place washing over him. The things he knew that Sandalphon wanted to do, that Michael would undoubtedly _let _it do, ignited the same fire from before in his bones.

“Y/N is in danger.”

Within moments, the two of them had appeared in front of the door to Y/N’s flat. Aziraphale had only been there a couple of times, so it still felt odd to be in her home. Well, he supposed that he wasn’t really in her home, not yet. That was going to change, if Crowley had any say in it, which he did. The demon knocked loudly on the door. No answer. He knocked again, twice as long and twice as loudly. No answer. Aziraphale’s heart had begun to pound in his chest, his fear and anxiety rolling in his belly. Although the logical part of him knew, without a doubt, that Y/N had been taken and that his dream had truly been a reflection of reality, some small sliver of himself wanted to ignore that and believe that she was safe, sleeping soundly in her warm bed.

After a third knock, Crowley was at the very end of his patience. He hissed, his forked tongue slipping out for the briefest of seconds before he shook his head.

“I smell angel, Angel.” Aziraphale nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. Supernatural beings give off a kind of energy that can be used to track them down, if need be. Each creature has their own, unique signature, and angels are no different. What Aziraphale had said to Michael in Crowley’s flat had been true: an Archangel’s trail was nearly impossible to miss. And here, in this hallway, though it was very faint, Aziraphale could definitely sense the presence of an Archangel. The two looked at each other, not even needing to communicate to know that they were both on the same page. Crowley lifted his hand and lazily waved it in the direction of the door’s lock, which promptly melted away, letting the door swing open into the apartment.

Aziraphale was not at all surprised at what he saw upon crossing the threshold. Everything was exactly how he had seen it on his last visit. Not a single piece of furniture was misplaced, no Knick-knacks broken. Everything was perfect.

Everything except for the long, almost blindingly-white wing feather lying on the rug in front of them. Crowley bent to give it a closer look, but Aziraphale could see it just fine from where he was standing. The white was run through with little streaks of silver, giving the owner of the feather away almost straight away.

It was Michael’s feather.

Crowley was in a rage. The thought that the angels could have taken Y/N, a person that he had grown to care for dearly over the past months, the only person aside from Aziraphale that he could call “friend”, turned his insides to acid. Time and space were rippling around him as he tried to control himself, but he could feel his true form slipping through. Without one word, he began to march out of the door, his hands itching to feel feathers being ripped apart. It had been a very long time since the War, but Crowley had yet to forget how it felt to _kill. _To truly decimate, not just bumble around with on Earth. He could taste the fire and brimstone. He was nearly to the door when he felt Aziraphale grab hold of his arm. Crowley spat and hissed at this ridiculous obstacle to his goal.

“Crowley. Stop.” Crowley shook his head in disbelief, refusing to believe what was happening.

“What the _Heaven _do you mean, ‘stop’?” He demanded, wrenching his arm out of Aziraphale’s grip. “Your guys have Y/N. They kidnapped her, Aziraphale. Don’t you want to get her back? I thought you loved her! You should be the one running after her, not me!” Crowley knew he was crossing all sorts of lines, but he didn’t give a damn. The angels had his friend. The angels were going to give her back or _die. _He watched Aziraphale close his eyes and take a deep breath. Somewhere, in the back of Crowley’s mind, he might have realized how close he had come to being discorporated in that moment. When Aziraphale reopened his eyes, Crowley was slightly startled to see how steely they had become. He hardly seemed to be the same person who melted over pictures of cute puppy dogs. In that moment, he saw a flash of how Aziraphale had been in the olden days, far before they had met each other. It was terrifying.

“Don’t you e_ver _question my feelings for her again, do you hear me?” Crowley nodded, swallowing thickly. Aziraphale’s voice was low and dangerous, like nothing that Crowley had heard from him before. “Of course I love her. But as much as I want to find her and rip those bastard angels apart, you know we can’t. We must find the Antichrist, whatever happens, or none of this will matter at all. Michael did this on purpose, to get to me, to throw me off course, but I won’t let them. We will find the true Antichrist, we will stop Armageddon, and I will get Y/n back.”

The outburst had taken a lot of energy out of Aziraphale, and when he was done, his knees buckled and he fell back onto one of Y/N’s sofas, hands coming up to cover his face as he breathed deeply. Crowley could do nothing but watch his friend try to gather himself, processing what had just happened. That had sounded nothing like the Aziraphale that Crowley knew, but he had certainly understood where all of that had come from. Aziraphale was frightened, he was stressed and frustrated. There was too much going on for him to focus on the love of his life and Crowley knew that it must be eating him up inside. Aziraphale hadn’t told him exactly what he had seen, only that some high-up angels had taken Y/N someplace and had her tied up. He could imagine the rest, and he could tell that it was taking everything in his celestial friend not to drop everything to search for her. But he was right, of course he was. Correcting the mistake that had been made all those eleven years ago had to be the priority, because if they didn’t the would as they knew it would literally end. Aziraphale gave one last, great exhale and lowered his hands from his face. He looked older and more tired than Crowley had ever seen him.

“I think I know where the Antichrist might be, actually,” he informed Crowley listlessly.

And off they went.


End file.
